Unprepared
by blackwolfmajik
Summary: An outing in Hillsbrad doesn't work out quite as planned for a young Alliance mage. (Classic WoW)


**World of Warcraft – Unprepared**

****AN:** Insert standard disclaimer here – I own nada!

This was an experiment of writing a POJ ("Point of Jerk") and present tense.  
This takes place back in Classic WoW, long before the world got shaken up like a snowglobe.

Please review!

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**Unprepared**

_ I'm going to die._

My brain has just enough time to register that thought as the huge bear knocks my staff aside like a child's toy. My spells have done little to the beast but singe its fur and make it angrier. The pain of cracked ribs makes it difficult to move, but I try desperately to dodge the vicious swipes aimed at my head as I flee.

My foot snags on a root and I feel myself start to fall, knowing that I won't be able to get back up. A cold sinking feeling grips my heart as I hear the bear roar and I wait for the burn of claws ripping through my spine.

My head strikes a rock on the ground and everything goes blessedly dark...

...

I'm still alive, a great surprise considering my last memories.

I don't want to open my eyes yet, but I mentally take stock of my faculties.

I especially notice my breathing. Since I had been convinced I was about to stop this action all together, breathing has suddenly become very obvious. Sensation is creeping back like a child coming home late for dinner. My chest feels tight, as if I cannot fully expand my lungs. Despite my preoccupation with air, I cannot ignore the seething fire burning through my body. Everything seems to hurt. It's as if my various parts are vying for the sadistic honor of being the most painful.

I try to stay very still, hoping that the agony will fade enough for me to think.

First off, how did I survive? The bear was fully intent on making me a meal, why did it stop?

The blood pounding in my ears seems to calm now that I'm not in immediate danger.

I should feel ashamed of myself. I was top of my class, how could a simple _bear_ come so close to destroying me?

I hear singing.

_ Bears sing?_ Perhaps I hit my head harder than I thought.

The melody is unfamiliar and I'm having trouble catching the quiet words. The tune is sing-song, pleasant with a lulling cadence. Surely if my body had not been screaming from multiple injuries, I would have fallen asleep under such an angel's voice.

With effort I turn my head in the direction of the siren and nearly squeak in surprise at an array of sharp teeth. After a panicked second I realize the bear's eyes are glazed and blood is leaking from the cavernous mouth. Reassured that the beast was dead, I swallow my heart with some embarrassment. Curiosity makes me attempt to lift my head to see past the cooling carcass.

The singing figure is turned away, but the form is lithe and curved under a cascade of ebony hair. I study my benefactor, most assuredly a woman, without attracting her attention.

Brilliant, I've been saved by a farm girl.

Her hair looks well cared for, small braids bound with leather and bone slide through the dark mass like fish in a midnight sea. Stitched hide decorated with curious designs hugs her well muscled limbs, altering my first assumption to her being a hunter of some sort. Gaps in the leather reveal pale skin that is smooth and faintly bluish. An elf perhaps?

Unbidden, my eyes wander lower across her shapely hips, giving life to thoughts better left in the dark.

I must not be dead if I'm still interested in such things.

The woman is tending a campfire that is giving cheerful warmth but little smoke, a skill most handy in these dangerous parts. The aches of my body fade from my immediate attention as the scent of something wonderful wafts to my nose. Whatever the wench is cooking smells more glorious than the finest incense in Darnassus. My stomach rumbles greedily, reminding me that narrowly escaping death does not exempt me from life's trappings.

Her ears are good. She stops singing and her head ticks slightly in my direction at my quiet moan. Twin silver rings catch the firelight, drawing my attention to the dainty point on her revealed ear. _Elf,_ I think smugly.

It's strange to see one of the Night Elves so far from their forests. Perhaps she is on a mission and happened to come upon me at just the right moment. I can think of many more appealing destinations, Hillsbrad is rather bland compared some of the other places Azeroth has to offer.

My tongue is thick in my mouth, but I attempt to make my appreciation known. I have no idea if she can speak common, but many of the elves I have encountered have had a decent grasp on the language.

The woman's demeanor does not change, nor does she turn to face me.

Rather rude of her, if I may say so.

I try again: "Please, I thank you for saving my life. You will be suitably rewarded when we return to Southshore."

She is mumbling under her breath, but the words are so low I cannot make them out.

My chest aches from the cracked ribs and my temper is suffering from my misfortune.

I attempt to sit up and nearly pass out from the surge of agony that burns through my body.

My hissed curse makes her turn enough to reveal a profile of her sculptured features for the first time.

Any triumph I might have felt for finally stirring a reaction from her flees with my breath.

Tusks.

The woman isn't a Night Elf after all.

...

All the lessons from my venerable masters freeze in my brain like mice cornered by a cat. The troll seems content to eye me over her shoulder, unconcerned that I might try to attack her. Truthfully, given the blazing pain in my ribs, doing anything other than whimpering shamefully is probably beyond my capability.

My gaze darts side to side, looking for help that might blessedly be there. Surely a battalion of Dawn Paladins would be coming through any moment, shining as gloriously as their name. Perhaps a group of farmers, back from the Southshore market will happen by and drive the wretched troll away.

I swear that I see amusement in her auburn gaze at my obvious desperation. I try to lift my chin up as much as I can, looking as disdainful as possible.

The horrible female cocks her head to the side like an inquisitive dog.

"You are lucky, troll. I am Katharlon, a great and famous wizard of Stormwind. Had the bear not surprised me, you would be dead where you sit!"

A raven eyebrow raises at my speech. I seriously doubt that the bitch can even understand me, but I feel better for my bravado.

Before I can add to my declaration, an orc tromps over in armor spattered with gore. My stomach turns at the grisly trophy heads strung from his belt. I recognize the tiny pinched features of a gnome and a disturbingly familiar human among the beast's prizes.

Beady porcine eyes glare at me from under his hide helmet, making me sure my head is about to be added to his collection.

The troll wench stops the brute with a word and I can see the confusion plainly in the male's face. Grumbled questions and replies toss back and forth over my prone form, completely ignoring me.

My pain crippled mind remarks that the troll's singing was definitely better than her speech.

An explosive noise makes me flinch. After a moment, I realize the hacking cough is actually the orc warrior's laugh. I can't help but feel I'm the butt of the joke, but the language barrier prevents me from replying in kind.

_ Maybe orcs can't speak troll either? _

I must be dying to think of such asinine things…

To my relief the jolly orc departs with his rotting trophies but my elation is tempered by the fact my troll savior remains.

Now, not so heavily out numbered, my bluster returns. "Good riddance! I didn't want to know what you thought was funny anyway!"

"'e say dat joo goodt pet for ma behbies," is my answer.

My heart jumps into my mouth again as I turn slowly toward the troll. I could not have been more surprised than if my mother's sunflower garden began singing "O Stormwind Forever!"

"You….can speak common?" Shock has puddled my wits at the bottom of my skull.

"Aye," auburn eyes glint at me with damnable amusement. "Dead teach….," She searches for the word. "Da _Forsakon_. Dey hoomon once, dey remembar hooman spake."

"The Forsaken are no better than the Scourge – they should be destroyed for the abominations they are!"

She shrugs, a fall of lanky arms that looks somehow graceful. "Dey alright. Dere be goodt dead an bad dead. Joo not kill tree 'cause bad apples on de ground."

I stare at her incredulously. It appears that not only did I get rescued by a wretched troll, but a bumpkin philosopher as well.

Something she said earlier jumps out at me: "Just a moment – did you say a 'pet for your babies'?"

A wicked smile peeks around her yellowed tusks. "Cuud be."

Something suspiciously like terror turns my blood to ice. Spending the rest of my days as a toy for filthy little Hordelings is a new addition to my list of "Ways Not to Die".

My fear must show on my face, as the troll's eyes take on a calculating sparkle. "No, I tinks joo too old, give da kids 'ard time."

I snort, trying to squelch the desire to cross my arms petulantly like a child: "Hard time? I'd toast the little buggers into fritters—"

My brain must have skipped a second, because the next thing I see is her furious face bare inches from mine. Rage has set her russet irises swirling like autumn leaves in a gale. "Joo best be tinking befo' joo opens jor mout nez time, huh? Or da bears _will_ be eatin' fine tonight."

There is a point when a frightened mind has had enough and abandons its owner to his own devices. It is the only explanation I can offer for the next few seconds.

"You have really pretty eyes."

She looks as surprised as I feel. _Was that really my voice?_

A heartbeat later and it's over, I feel a sharp prick of a dagger at my throat.

"Joor foolish words will get ja killed, hooman," she hisses.

"No doubt you are correct," I mumble.

Her rage has set a charge in the air around us. Static energy makes the hair rise on my arms and she smells distinctly of ozone and warm earth. As a side effect, I get a better look at her now that she's practically breathing in my face.

My instructor, a man believed to have been lecturing when the sun was a speck of dust, had a troll's head in a large jar of alcohol. The class would stare at the misshapen and feral looking creature with emotions ranging from disgust to fascination. The beast had been killed outside of AeriePeak and the dwarves had kept its head as proof that the Horde was moving into the area. Once its purpose as a warning was complete, the troll head became a paperweight to frighten students.

The preserved flesh in the jar I had once ogled is nothing like the real thing.

Sharp features with long swept back ears make her strikingly elfin in appearance, comforting me about my first assumption on her race. Dispelling the illusion is the pair of ivory tusks poking out of her mouth like curling daggers. A hairline scar traces across the pale blue skin of her cheek, no doubt from an enemy that didn't get a second chance to cut deeper. Sharp ebony brows are lowered in anger, highlighting her russet eyes.

All of her visible armor looks well cared for and of quality work, though _I_ would never stoop to wear such barbarian fare. Carved bone ornaments decorate her leather vest, making it rattle faintly as she moves. Three tiny skulls in particular catch my attention. Strung on a rawhide thong with other beads, I swear that the painted skulls glow faintly.

A scrap of an old lecture pops into my head:_ "Horde are connected to the earth by many traditions and use it to empower their magic in primitive ways. The most dangerous of these casters is the Shaman, a fearsome creature that channels natural energies through fetishes and totems."_

I hadn't given Master Alimon's teachings much credence at the time. The man had an entire semester on the eating habits of Devilsaurs after all; students thought he was a lunatic.

Faced with the reality of my professor's notes, I wish I had paid more attention instead of practicing my sheeping technique on underclassmen…

_Guurrruup…_

She blinks and then rocks back hard on her heels. Her cackling laugh is enough to send shivers down a stalwart's spine, but I'm too embarrassed to notice.

"Joor tommy go'in ta bite tru joor back. Joo wan ta e't?" she says between giggles.

Glaring at the wench sullenly, I mumble my thanks after accepting the offered chunk of meat. Despite myself, the roasted bear steak is much better than I expect and my stomach readily replies its appreciation.

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**AN:** This is actually based off my first shaman character (I rolled her in open beta and then recreated her on the Live servers. I still have her, though she has been migrated to other servers and is max level now).

I have several story shots that I was twining together involving her and a romantic entanglement, but I don't know if I'll post them. If there is any interest, post it in a review and I'll see about getting them in shape for the public.


End file.
